The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) by Marcia Muller Page A

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    “Home to his house on Pacific Avenue. While he was at the restaurant, he didn’t speak or have any other kind of contact with anybody except the waiter.”
    “Keep on him.”
    “If he goes out again tomorrow, can I eat whatever I want?”
    “Eat anything you please, but go easy on the wine.”
    10:45 a.m.
    Patrick Neilan, red-haired and ruddy-faced, was sitting in my office when I arrived.
    “Done with the deadbeat dad,” he said, “and Ted tells me you can use help on another case.”
    “Oh, yeah, can I ever.” I plunked my briefcase down on my desk and myself in my chair.
    “Surveillance?”
    “On a client.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “Name’s Jay Givens.” I explained the case and gave him a folder with the details and a photo of the subject that Mick had pulled off the Net. “Stay with him no matter where he goes, especially at night.” I filled him in on the Night Searchers’ activities.
    “Right. I get it. What about the wife—this Camilla?”
    “I’d like someone on her, but everybody else is tied up.”
    “You know, that woman you hired as a temp a few weeks ago—Erica Wilbur—strikes me as a person with a talent for our kind of work.”
    “Really?”
    “She’s jazzed about investigation, very detail-oriented, logical, and observant.”
    “And?”
    “Okay, I’d like you to keep her around, so I could see more of her.”
    Romance and business. They seldom work, but sometimes they do. Witness Hy and me.
    “Why don’t you send her in and I’ll talk with her?”
    11:20 a.m.
    Erica Wilbur had come to us because of an ad we’d placed three weeks ago for someone to transfer our older case files to our central computer. She’d proved to be efficient and, though somewhat shy, fit well into the mix of personalities. When she entered my office, she nervously pushed a strand of her long dark brown hair behind her ear—something I’d seen her do before in times of stress. Probably she was afraid I was going to tell her that we no longer required her services.
    I motioned for her to sit, and she did, pulling the hem of her shirt down as far as it would go—which wasn’t much. The way she folded her hands and crossed her legs at the ankles reminded me of an anxious little girl at dancing school.
    “Patrick tells me you’re excited about investigative work,” I said.
    “Oh, yes.” The edgy expression disappeared and her gold-flecked eyes shone. “I’ve been reading some of the files I scan. That is okay? I’m only reading them for my own information.”
    “It’s okay as long as you don’t discuss what you read with anyone outside the agency. How much information have you picked up about surveillances?”
    “Quite a bit. Always take water and food and something to…pee in. Don’t stare fixedly at any one point, but scan the scene. If in a car, park inconspicuously. Wear dark clothing, even in daylight, and have a couple of changes in case you need to go someplace where what you’ve got on isn’t appropriate.” She was ticking the items off on her fingers. I stopped her before she got to number five.
    “How’d you like to run a trial surveillance?”
    She asked eagerly, “When?”
    “Right away.” I pushed the file containing a photograph and information on Camilla Givens across to her. “I want to know where this woman goes and what she does twenty-four seven. If you see her with a man and spot Patrick in the vicinity, don’t be surprised or acknowledge him. I’ve got him on the husband.”
    “I’ll read it and be on my way in my trusty Ford Falcon.”
    Ford Falcon? As far as I knew, they hadn’t been manufactured in this country since the sixties. I hoped Erica’s was more trustworthy than Rae’s now-defunct Rambler American—called the Ramblin’ Wreck—had been.
    1:00 p.m.
    Hy and I met at the parklet next to the RI building exactly on time. He carried the promised bag of hot dogs and Cokes. I carried what files I thought were relevant to our conversation. We